


Bullets, Bad Language, and Beyond

by De_Nugis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-17
Updated: 2010-05-17
Packaged: 2017-10-17 01:51:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/pseuds/De_Nugis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So I was lurking past <span class="ljuser ljuser-name_merryish"><a href="http://merryish.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://merryish.livejournal.com/"><b>merryish</b></a></span> 's journal tonight, and she requested a 5.22 coda with the following scenario (I paraphrase):</p><p><a id="cutid1" name="cutid1"></a>Sam shows up on Dean's doorstep at the beginning of Season Six.  Dean shoots him in the foot with the Colt, just to be sure, and Sam is hopping around and swearing and Dean is trying to apologize and hug him but Sam is bitchfacing and having none of it.<a id="cutid1-end" name="cutid1-end"></a></p><p>So, I kind of missed the bitchface and produced schmoopy h/c, but it has as much swearing as any heart could desire.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Bullets, Bad Language, and Beyond

**Author's Note:**

> So I was lurking past [](http://merryish.livejournal.com/profile)[ **merryish**](http://merryish.livejournal.com/)  's journal tonight, and she requested a 5.22 coda with the following scenario (I paraphrase):
> 
> Sam shows up on Dean's doorstep at the beginning of Season Six.  Dean shoots him in the foot with the Colt, just to be sure, and Sam is hopping around and swearing and Dean is trying to apologize and hug him but Sam is bitchfacing and having none of it.
> 
> So, I kind of missed the bitchface and produced schmoopy h/c, but it has as much swearing as any heart could desire.

  
In six nights of sinister lurking under Dean’s busted streetlamp, Sam has had plenty of time to imagine the scene. Seeing Dean. Not Dean posed with his new family in the perfect frame of the window, but Dean looking back at Sam. There may even be a hug. Winchesters do hugs at resurrections. After however many months with a companion who was nothing but a voice and a reflection – not to mention being the fucking devil – Sam could use a PDA. Lisa and Ben are out. Dean is home. So Sam should knock. He should really just knock. It’s just that rising from the pit has given him some kind of stage fright.

He knocks.

There is an interval, a little longer, maybe by a few months, than his time in the cage. Footsteps. The footsteps pause in front of the door, and Sam can feel it, Dean looking at him. The peephole is barely visible in the dark paint of the door, but Sam has always, always been able to sense his brother’s attention on him. His throat goes dry. When the door slams abruptly open and he tries to say “Dean,” no sound comes out.

Dean’s face is perfectly white, and his pupils are so dilated that for a disorienting moment Sam is looking at a demon. He takes a step backwards, and Dean’s whole face kind of jerks without changing expression, and he makes some movement with his hand that Sam can’t see, because he can’t move his eyes from Dean’s. There’s a noise and a lag and then an explosion of pain in his foot and then another lag, and then his brain catches up. Dean shot him. Dean shot him in the foot. With the Colt.

“Fuck,” says Sam. “Fuck, fuck, what the motherfucking fuck. DEAN!” This time, the words come out just fine.

He lurches over the threshold, there’s a clatter – the gun, falling -- and Dean’s hands fasten bruisingly on his arms as he collapses on a rickety-looking chair and curls forward in a combination of agony and outrage, Dean going to his knees in front of him. Dean’s hands move up to Sam’s shoulders, pushing him back, and then they are on either side of his face and Dean is staring at him, so close that Sam can feel his breath. Dean just looks, his hands warm and shaking, and Sam leans stupidly into his touch, while his head swims and his foot throbs like a motherfucker. Then Dean is pulling him forward and he can’t see anything any more because his face is mashed in the soft flannel and hard bone of Dean’s shoulder and Dean’s arm is curled around his neck and Dean is saying raggedly “Sam, Sam, God, Sam,” over and over again.

Sam pushes back enough that he can breathe. “You shot me,” he says, mildly. Very mildly, really, considering that Dean just welcomed him back from the grave by shooting his foot and ruining his damn resurrection hug. He moves the foot forward a bit, trying to get a look at it, and the motion is enough to grey the edges of his vision. It’s all kind of surreal, being out of the pit and leaning his head back against the raincoats and scarves dangling from pegs in some suburban hallway lit – it’s too bright – by a sort of half-assed chandelier thing, and having Dean there instead of Lucifer, Dean warm and solid and real, looking at him now with his expression changing in comic slow motion from shattering joy to horrified realization. There’s a steady drip that sounds like a leaky faucet but is probably blood, and his shoes apparently survived hell and Satan and whatever got him out, but he doubts they survived this. He’ll have to get new ones. He closes his eyes and Dean’s voice babbling, “Shit, Sam, I’m sorry, shit, let me look at it, shit, I’m so sorry, I thought it was a trick, I thought it was him,” follows him into the dark.

He wakes up with a pillow under his head and Dean hovering. He’s lying on a couch, now, and he can feel the tight, clumsy bulk of bandages around his foot. The pain has not so much dulled as retreated into a hazy distance, and that and the taste in his mouth suggest that Dean has been plying him with a Winchester cocktail of alcohol and prescription painkillers. “You back with me, Sammy?” asks Dean, and he’s got his hands cradling Sam’s face again. Sam remembers standing outside under the busted light, looking at Dean through the window, and he remembers Dean’s eyes, only Dean’s eyes, holding him and letting him go as he fell endlessly backwards into the hole in the world. He reaches up his own hands and pulls Dean down, and Dean is kissing him, firm and warm, and he’s not falling and the couch is solid under his back and his brother’s lips on his are the most natural thing in the world.

“You’re back,” whispers Dean, “you came back,” and Sam’s grinning, all light and giddy, it must be the painkillers. “Yeah, I came back, and you fucking shot me, you moron,” he agrees. “Just so you know, I’m planning on leaving you. As soon as I can fucking hop away.” And he tugs Dean closer, just for emphasis, and kisses him again, because it makes his point more, you know, cogent.

He can’t believe that when he pictured this scene under the busted streetlight he had been planning to settle for a hug.


End file.
